Sunday, January 28, 2024

Gaslighting is fun, said no teacher ever

Gaslighting is a thing in many workplaces. It’s such an easy way to manage people, especially if you have no respect for them and want to make sure they understand that they’re a dime a dozen and can easily be replaced in a heartbeat.

 

So, it goes without saying – but I’ll say it anyhow, that in education, gaslighting is rampant. No wonder so many teachers leave the profession after just a few years or stay but eventually go out on medical leaves and/ or take meds for depression, PTSD, anxiety, high blood pressure. 

 

I’m retired a while now but still working my way through some stuff. Like many of my colleagues, some of my school experiences did a job on my psyche and affected me in ways I’m still discovering. The triggers are everywhere. For me, gaslighting is one of those.  

 

Here are some experiences, mostly generalized, that have affected me and many of my friends. I wanted to write this for myself just to get some things off my chest. But also, there are folks out there who have absolutely no respect for the profession. Maybe if you read this, it will open your eyes a little to some of the many things teachers are up against. And to any of my teacher friends who read this and can relate, I’m thinking of you always. 

 

 

Admin: If you have any questions, just email me.

Reality: After sending multiple follow-up emails: Crickets. Nothing but crickets. Common in all professions of course, but when it comes to dealing with follow ups on out-of-control students and safety issues, email responses are vital. To those who say, “Why email?  Go immediately and talk to so-and -so.” Yes, of course. But an email trail is important not only for documentation of the student issue, but for covering your butt too. I know teachers who have lost their jobs because issues came down to admin said teacher said kinds of things. And the teachers always lose. It’s disgusting but it’s reality.

 

Admin: We are here to support teachers. 

Reality: Here’s a reworking of one teacher’s life one year. Admin: “Ah, so you’re busy helping your seriously ill, elderly parents all those hours after school every day and are finding it hard to manage things? Why don’t you learn to multitask? Bring your plan book or papers for correcting with you to their doctor appointments so you can work while you’re in the waiting room with them.”  

 

Reality: Admin: “So you say that this one student is causing all these problems and you say you can’t manage the classroom until this student gets some sort of additional support, like an instructional assistant? Maybe the problem is you. Maybe you need to try harder.” 

Teacher/s (with more time in classroom than admin will ever have) go/es out on medical leave due to blood pressure issues. 

Replacement teacher – brand new and just starting her professional career, gets no support whatsoever, and is fired within weeks of hire for not being able to control class, an unfair experience that will absolutely affect her for many, many years to come.  

Finally, after months of day-to-day subs each of whom refuse to return to that classroom, and some who walk out, refusing to stay the whole day, the student gets needed support, and with the school year more than half gone, the classroom finally gets its third and final teacher. 


Reality: Veteran teacher with mobility disability has classroom moved from first to fourth floor in building with constantly broken elevator. Nearest bathroom is on third floor. 


 

 

Admin: Cell phones are not allowed in classrooms. Simply follow protocol. Protocol, which takes a good chunk of teacher’s planning period: If students don’t put their phones away, contact x, then if that doesn’t work y, then if that doesn’t work z, and finally admin. Admin will handle it. Follow the process and everything will be fine. 

 

Reality: Teacher jumps through hoops and follows all the steps then gets to admin. Admin does nothing. 


Reality: At faculty meeting, admin blames teachers. Because faculty hasn’t focused on building relationships with students, students feel they don’t need to do what they are told, which is why they don’t put their phones away. Then, while next meeting presenter is talking, admin whips out phone and shows pics of family vacation to admin/ office/ teacher friends instead of listening to presenter.  

 



System bases teacher evaluations and classroom planning around useless testing programs like Fountas and Pinnell, MCAS, MAPs.

Reality: For years and years, teachers push back, saying that the program is a giant waste of time and money, is faulty, and its data can be easily manipulated. 

Reality: Some teachers receive poor evaluations and/or lose their jobs because their students aren’t meeting data expectations. 

Reality: Teachers and students lose twenty-plus classroom hours every quarter due to testing. 

Reality: Teachers are beyond stressed because testing is everything. 

Reality: After decades, school system suddenly and mysteriously drops that particular testing - FP for example, because –surprising no teacher anywhere, it is determined by someone somewhere that the testing is useless. 

 


No cigarettes, drugs, or alcohol allowed on school property. 

Reality: Teacher/s yelled at by admin – yup, public humiliation of teachers is a thing in some schools, for confronting student about vaping in bathrooms, hallways, etc.  No consequences for the student. 

Reality: Email sent to staff telling teachers to ignore various student odors and allow students to sleep in class. 

 

 


No weapons allowed on school property/ Schools are safe

Reality: Unless and until school systems implement airport-like security protocols, there will always be weapons or the possibility of weapons in schools. 

Witnessed parent with gun in waistband of pants in school hallway (might have been an undercover cop but never found out for sure and I’m pretty sure shouldn’t have had the weapon anyhow). 

Had to divert my dismissal line as one man holding a gun chased another down the alley next to our school (school property). 

Witnessed a teen kid– not from my school -- in parking lot across from school, where we teachers often parked our cars, showing a pack of kids his weapon. 

One year a student brought a BB gun to shoot me. Thankfully, another student reported it. 

My car - and other teacher cars paintballed, while parked on school property. 

Front bumper crushed, a hit and run on school property where staff, parents, and often time school neighbors park. 

License plate stolen. 

Last year, had my jacket stolen from my classroom. 

My experiences aren’t unusual either. Lots of teachers have lots of stories. Students too. 


Reality: Though many teachers and admin object, school committee changes policy to allow students to carry backpacks while in school.  Some kids report they don’t like the new rule because they are worried that some kids are carrying weapons in their backpacks. Teachers’ typical lunchtime discussion:: “Of course, the kids are carrying weapons, drugs, alcohol in their packs. But even if they didn’t carry their packs, kids would find a way to get illicit things into school. So, if the stuff is going to come in anyhow, why bother banning backpacks?” 


Reality: Schools are as safe as that one random kid who helpfully lets a stranger through one of the many many outside doors in her school. One of my schools had 16 doors, all alarmed by the early 2000s, but still. . .all it takes is that one helpful kid. 


Reality: Schools are as safe as that one kid who risks all to tell someone in authority that xyz has a weapon in his/her backpack. 

 

 

 

 

No school personnel should have to tolerate verbal or physical abuse. 

Reality: Admins have so much else on their plate, that reporting verbal abuse almost always gets ignored or gets at most a two-minute meeting with student. Or gets a phone call home, which is a waste of oxygen nine times out of ten. 


Fun reality: Admins sometime blame teachers for the student verbal abuse: “What were YOU doing that prompted the student to call you that.”


Reality: Things I have been called – in many different languages so I’m somewhat multilingual now, include bitch, old cow, fucking bitch, whore, old whore. 


Reality: It’s the teacher’s word against the student’s word. Threats get consequences - if the student admits to it and/or there’s another witness besides the teacher/ victim. 


Reality: Physical abuse of staff gets addressed - if witnessed by someone. Usually.


Reality: One case – circumstances changed to protect those involved – staff injured while breaking up fight.  Student bragged to others that they’d injured school staff.  Student denied it in official meeting.  The videotape – camera in all halls and stairways is pretty much the norm now in lots of school systems, didn’t clearly show the part of the fight where student allegedly punched and injured staff.  Result: Student walks away, exonerated. 

 

How does the staff member cope in a situation like that?  The staff member either leaves the school, the system, or the profession, or retires early, perhaps on disability – only 40 percent, which is tough to prove if that disability is due to something “invisible,” like school-related PTSD. Or the staff member finds some other way to deal with the fact that a kid beat them up and nobody did anything about it. 

 

If, like me and many of my friends, you’re “lucky” enough to only start experiencing some of these gaslighting techniques as you approach the end of your career, one good coping mechanism is to focus on the big picture. You take things one day at a time. Keep your eyes on the prize: that retirement chart that tells you that soon, very soon, you’re done, and you’ll never have to think about any of this again. 

 

But here’s the thing. Once you’re retired, sometimes you still do.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Monday, January 1, 2024

24 Resolutions for 2024, Song Title Edition

 24 Resolutions for 2024, Song Title Edition

 

A shit year, 2023,  for the most part. I don’t want to write about it but also, I want to write about it.  Rather than continuing to sit here, stare off into space, relive the past and then shuffle forward with heavy heart, there’s this, a sort of lighter take. 

 

1.     Feeling Stronger Every Day (Chicago)

2.     Free Falling (Tom Petty)

3.     Miracles (Cold Play) 

4.     Shut Up and Dance With Me (Walk the Moon)

5.     Underdog (Spoon)

6.     Only the Good Die Young (Billy Joel)

7.     Ain’t No Rest for the Wicked (Cage the Elephant)

8.     Long May You Run (Neil Young)

9.     Don’t Stop Me Now (Queen)

10.  Dream On (Aerosmith)

11.  Life Is a Highway (Rascal Flatts)

12.  Don’t Stop Believing (Journey)

13.  You Haven’t Seen the Last of Me (Cher)

14.  I Won’t Back Down (Petty)

15.  Eat It (Al Yankovic)

16.  Hungry Like the Wolf (Duran Duran)

17.  Red, Red Wine (UB 40, Neil Diamond

18.  Renegade (Styx)

19.  Hit Me with Your Best Shot (Pat Benatar)

20.  Rosalita (Jump a Little Higher) (Bruce Springsteen)

21.  Shake it Off (Taylor Swift)

22.  Anti-Hero (Swift)

23.  Girls Just Want to Have Fun (Cyndi Lauper)

24.  Take on Me (A-ha)

 

 

 

Monday, July 10, 2023

Teaching. 30.2 years. 13 lyrics. Chronological order.

 

None of this has anything whatsoever to do with my students. 

 

 

1.     “A B C, easy as 1 2 3.”

 

2.     “Stayin’ alive. Stayin’ alive.” 

 

3.     “Outgunned, outmanned, outnumbered, outplanned.” 

 

4.     “She works hard for the money.”

 

5.     September 2001: “Come on up for the rising. Come on up lay your hand in mine.” 

 

6.     “Oh, we’re halfway there. Oh, living on a prayer.”

 

7.     “Ch ch ch ch changes.”  

 

8.     “Shake it off.  Shake it off.” 

 

9.     “All I’m asking is for a little respect.”

 

10.  “Just another brick in the wall.” 

 

11.  “The waiting is the hardest part.” 

 

12.  “I’m unstoppable today.”  

 

13.  June 2023: “School’s out forever.” Too obvious? 

Sunday, August 14, 2022

I attain superhuman status for a half second

 

A few days after I posted my goal to run a marathon in all fifty states, I ran into a young friend as I was leaving the gym. Peg had read my post, and was pretty much in awe, which I kind of enjoyed. It’s not too often I meet someone who looks up to me. Granted, one reason is because I’m short. But also, I don’t live the most exciting life: I work all day, hit the gym most nights, pay my bills on time, complain a lot, have a glass of wine every now and then, gain weight, lose weight, gain the weight back, complain some more. You get the picture. 

 

Peg gushed, complimented, hugged. The attention was extravagant, and I loved every second. Then she said, “So, what’s your plan?” 

 

I shrugged, a little taken aback. “Not sure. I guess I’ll do a couple of marathons a year until I’m done? I haven’t totally thought it out.” I adjusted the shoulder strap of my gym bag, a hint to her that the conversation was over. 

 

She nodded but stayed put, waiting for more. Shit was getting real. She had expectations. 

 

“Oh. I didn’t realize this was an essay test.” I expected her to grin. She didn’t.

 

 “My goal is to finish before I die. So, I’ve got some time, right?”

 

She nodded and continued to wait. 

 

“Maybe I can work up to doing three marathons a year.” I faltered. I was disappointing my first and only fan. “It’s only one more than two. So that could happen. Couldn’t it?”

 

To my surprise, Peg did not seem one iota less awed by the fact that I hadn't totally thought things through. She squealed out some comment about me being superhuman. There was more gushing, more complimenting, and too many more hugs.


I couldn’t get out of that gym fast enough. My run-until-I-die strategy obviously needed some tweaking. If I was serious about running a marathon in all fifty states, I needed a real plan that included a race calendar, map, budget. A good training method and a sensible diet wouldn’t hurt either. What was I getting myself into? 

 

Instead of heading straight home, I detoured to the grocery store and bought some brownie mix. First things first.

 

In bed that night, I contemplated the soothing effect that chocolate, flour, sugar, and butter have on my stressed-out brain. There's nothing better than a couple of spoonfuls of brownie batter to help me think. Now I had a full belly and a carbohydrate high. Even better, I had a plan. 

 


Saturday, August 13, 2022

I'm not dead yet: Thoughts on finishing the fifty states


Eight years ago in August 2014, I publicly announced my goal to run a marathon in every state.  Thank you, Facebook, for reminding me of this via an “On this day” update.  

When I initially wrote that post, I remember I had a rough end date  in mind -- pretty much the rest of my life. But didn't have any finish time goals. Why bother?


In addition to the inevitable running injuries that always seem to pop up just when I’ve made big gains, there will always be family and work responsibilities to throw me off track. And given the fact that Father Time is no longer on my side, I figured setting finish time goals might be a great way to destroy my body, my confidence, my resolve. 

 

“Better to just think in terms of finishing one marathon at a time,” I remember telling myself. 

 

In 2014, when I wrote that initial post, I’d already run fourteen marathons, but I'd only covered nine states.   I’d never done more than two marathons in one year and couldn't even imagine doing three or more within twelve months.  

 

Given my age at the time, and that at most I’d likely get in two marathons in one year -- if that --  I calculated that it would take something like twenty-five years to reach my goal, hence the rest of my life. My plan: finish that final marathon, then drop dead. 

 

Turns out that didn't happen. 

 

I finished my fiftieth state in 2019. And guess what? I'm not dead yet. 

 

In the process, I learned:

How to cope with losing one parent and almost losing another. 

That sometimes running doesn't give me everything I need.

That chocolate is the best recovery drink. 

That Aquaphor beats Body Glide every time. 

That each state is beautiful in its own way. 

That most people are kind. 

That I can set a ridiculous goal and reach it.

That I could list another ten things, then another ten, and so on. 


 

I met all sorts of runners with all sorts of goals, most much loftier than my own. Some are now Guinness world record holders for most marathons in a year, most marathons on crutches, most marathons run barefoot. Wow. Talk about humbling. 


Some of my new friends do marathons or volunteer at marathons almost every weekend and most weekdays. They live semi-nomadic lives, traveling in trailers and trucks from race to race, from starts to finishes.  Some of these remarkable humans have covered the fifty states dozens of times. Their strength and endurance is beyond my understanding, but if I keep doing what I'm doing, maybe one of these days I'll figure them out. 


I could write forever on all of this, but now isn't the time.  I have some races coming up this fall and I need to get to the gym. It’s speedwork day. I'm working on setting new goals. Some day soon, maybe I'll post them. 







 

 

 

 

Monday, November 12, 2018

Little Blue Running Shoes



Once upon a time, there was a schoolgirl named Little Blue Running Shoes.  Her parents – and the rest of society – expected her to wear frilly frocks, shiny shoes, and ribbons in her perfectly brushed and curled pigtails. Everyone expected her to sit quietly in her corner, follow directions, never talk back, and never ever EVER think for herself. Most important of all, she was never allowed outside the fenced in schoolyard.

“You must never venture into the unknown,” her protectors said. “It is unsafe. There are wolves, strange dreams, and unusual urges that could mire and frustrate you and change you forever on the other side of that chain link fence.”

So each day at recess, Little Blue Running Shoes spent her time staring at the street and the hills and valleys beyond  from behind the chain link fence, sometimes pressing so hard into the metal that the fence left marks on her ruddy, unwrinkled cheeks. Most of her classmates seemed content to stay within the confines of the fenced in yard, playing hopscotch, jump rope, or running in circles from the schoolboys who chased them and tried to snap their bra straps because they thought  it was funny even though the girls shrieked and told them it wasn’t. “Snap turtle,” the boys would shout each time they caught another.

Sometimes she would look down at her frilly frock, and her shiny shoes with their blue laces and comfortable foot beds with thick rubber soles and think, “Why do we all have these shoes for running if we're only allowed to use them for walking or jumping rope or playing hopscotch?” And when the recess bell would chime, she and many of the other girls would run inside the perimeter of the school yard for as long as they could, under the pretense of lining up before the teacher yelled for them to get over here or they'd be sorry.

    
One day, all the students were lined up against the school yard fence and told that they would be participating in fitness tests. These tests involved running many different distances. “Why do we need these tests if we’re never allowed to run because the outside world is full of wolves and strange dreams and unusual urges?” said Little Blue Running Shoes.

The teacher glared at her. “First, nice girls don’t question authority. How will you ever find a husband if you question,” the teacher said. “Second, it’s important to stay fit so that you can cook and clean and chase children all day when you become a mother and so that you can cheer your sons and husbands at their sports games.”

Many of the boys nodded in agreement. Enthusiastically. Many of the girls rolled their eyes. Enthusiastically.

“Plus, the running helps us escape from the boys when they try to snap our bra straps,” piped up another school girl further down the line. Her running shoes were orange.

“Yes, I mean be quiet,” said the teacher.

For the running tests, the genders were separated. The boys were taken outside the school yard, into the world of wolves, dreams, urges. The girls were allowed to watch the boys from a distance – practice for later on in life, the teacher said, while they ran circles inside the yard.

Little Blue Running Shoes felt quite grumpy at first at the unfairness of it all, but noticed that the more she ran, the better her mood. Surveying her classmates, she saw their smiles, as they high-fived one another and got faster and faster. It seemed as though many of the girls shared in her endorphin high.
 
That afternoon at recess, some students played hopscotch and others jumped rope. Many boys commenced their bra strap game, chasing their female classmates around the yard and shouting, “Snap turtle,” whenever they captured their prey, which was getting more difficult because the girls were getting quite fit and fast.  

Meanwhile,  Little Blue Running Shoes stood in her usual spot, at the edge of the school yard, face pressed against the fence, imagining the outside world and doing her best to ignore the one in which she was trapped. Other girls soon joined her. Then even more.

Suddenly, Little Blue Running Shoes heard the hideous sound of desperate panting. “Is there a wolf in the schoolyard,” she wondered. Turning, she saw a boy, red-faced and sweaty, reach out to grab at her bra strap.

“Snap Tur – ouch!”

“Don’t you dare,” she said, slapping his arm away. “I deserve better.” Nearby, students stopped their games and turned to watch. 

“Yeah. Leave her alone,” said one of the girls she’d raced with that morning.

“Leave ALL of us alone,” said another one of the girls.

Before she knew it, all of the girls in the school yard were chanting, “Leave us alone.”

Bewildered, the snap turtle boys backed away until the girls had pinned them all against the chain link fence. With nowhere else to go, the girls looked at one another as though to say, “What do we do next?”

Shrugging, Little Blue Running Shoes said, “How about if we go for a run? I’ve had enough of this bullshit. Let’s go that way.” She pointed to the road outside the fence.

“Awesome idea,” said Little Orange Running Shoes. The other girls followed suit, though some chose other paths once they exited the yard.

“I always wanted to study art,” one girl said, heading east toward Paris.

“I’ve always dreamed of working on Wall Street,” said another, veering toward the bright lights of a big city to the west.

“One day, I plan on writing a best-selling novel,”  said a third, starry-eyed young lady, as she turned onto a narrow trail lined with rocks and broken glass and a smelly swamp filled with quicksand and alligators beyond that.

“Don’t quit your day job,” a friend called out.

They laughed, and wished each other well as they scattered in directions as varied as they were.   

“You’ll be sorry,” yelled the snap turtle boys as a steady parade of girls made their way toward the cities, oceans, hills, and valleys beyond.

“I doubt that very much.” Little Blue Running Shoes called back.  And she was right.  

Nanowrimo #6. folk tale form

Wednesday, November 7, 2018

Driving to work on a Monday morning



Monday morning 8 a.m., cloudless, infinite sky, and here I am stuck in traffic and late for work even before I left the house -- with hair still damp, and new shirt sporting a bright glob of toothpaste. 

Fuel light blinking. Of course. Exited the highway and filled the tank at a convenience store. Got a jumbo size coffee for a buck, though. The day wasn’t starting off totally bad.  Thought about calling work and saying I’d be a few minutes late. But why bother? I could always sneak in the back and no one would notice. 

“Yes I know full well that I have a glob of toothpaste on my new silk shirt, thank you,” spoken to the cashier with all the patience left in my body and a phony smile as big as the coffee. 

Back on the highway. Stop. Go. Slam brakes when cut off by moron in dented Camaro with a “Fat Chicks Suck “ sticker in the rear window. Wave to driver behind me gifting me with the one-finger salute.  Breathe. Drive. Stop. Go. 

Three miles ahead is the exit for work. Six miles past that, the highway cuts  into New York, then Pennsylvania, Ohio, Indiana, Illinois and then all those big middle states, all the way to the Pacific Northwest.  
Cars close in on each side. I wonder what on earth is going on with this traffic. I should call work and say I’ll be late. Why chance disrespecting the system by sneaking in and getting caught?  Only two years to retirement. Why bring unnecessary drama into the picture this late in the game?
 
The SUV to the left is so close I could reach out and touch it. To the right, the driver holds a cell phone to her ear with her shoulder. In one hand is a lit butt. In the other, a jumbo coffee,  like mine. She’s steering with her knees and blowing bubbles with her chewing gum, to boot. That’s talent. I can’t even brush my teeth without dropping something.    

In the distance, a mess of flashing red lights and blue lights. An officer directs traffic. Correction --  several officers. We’re directed into the breakdown lane and we slow until we’re almost stopped, all of us craning our necks to see the accident. 

I recognize one of the cars. What’s left of it anyhow. It’s a lemon yellow two-door, the front crumpled all the way to the driver’s seat. All the windows are shattered, but I know that license plate, and can read the sticker on the rear bumper. It’s a series of notes on a staff and says, “If you can read this, thank a music teacher.” There are three other cars, all smashed up too. I see my friend on a gurney, emergency workers swarming around her. There’s blood everywhere. When the idiot driver behind me blares his horn,  half my jumbo coffee spills into my lap. 

As the road opens back up to four lanes, I pick up speed. Last time we talked was her retirement party the month before. She was selling her house. Had put a down payment on a trailer, one of those silver ones that look like tubes. She had big plans to travel the country, and eventually settle down somewhere new. Some place with a view, like Washington or maybe somewhere in northern California. I told her I always wanted to visit that part of the country and to get a place with a spare bedroom so I could visit when I retired. She said, "Why not retire now? You've got the time in. What's another ten percent of salary compared to living your life?" I don't remember what I said next. 
.
The odometer says I’m doing 80. It takes me a minute to realize I missed the exit for work, which was several miles back. I could still make it in pretty quickly. I’d only be a few minutes late, and everyone would understand, given the circumstances. 

I call my job and before I can stop myself say, "I won’t be in today." I find myself coughing, for extra effect.I deserve an Emmy.

I head west. My fuel gauge says I can get close to 400 miles on this one tank of gas, all the way to the Pennsylvania border.  That’ll give me plenty of time to think about what I’ll do next.The road is wide open. The sky bluer than I've ever seen before. I fiddle with the radio dial until I find a song with a good strong beat and words I know by heart, and as I drive, I sing. 

Nanowrimo prompt #5: story takes place on a Monday